


Morning Walk

by dragonflies_and_dalmatians



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2953544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflies_and_dalmatians/pseuds/dragonflies_and_dalmatians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every morning, Mary and Tom take a walk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mary

**Author's Note:**

> Largely canon-compliant through to the 2013 Christmas Special, absolutely AU beyond that. 
> 
> A/N: I seem to have developed an affinity for these two. Inspired by the soundtrack to Joe Wright’s Pride and Prejudice. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Downton Abbey belongs to ITV and Julian Fellowes. I just wrote this for fun, with no copyright infringement intended.

Mary finds it amusing that Tom likes to walk. Not because there’s anything wrong with that, but because he first came to them as chauffeur. He used to drive her places and now all they do is walk.

Their first walk came in the weeks following Sybil’s death. Tom became a ghost once Sybil gone, a figure that prowled the halls at all times of the day and night, white-faced and drifting.

“I’m worried about Tom, Mary.” Matthew says as he prepares to go to London early one morning.

Mary’s half-asleep as she joins him at their window. There’s a lone figure with Isis, too robust and short to be her father. The gait is familiar; Tom has started haunting the grounds, rather than Downton itself. “He’s just lost his wife, Matthew.”

Mary’s afraid that her sister’s death will turn her back into that chilly person she was before Matthew came and made everything inside her bloom. Matthew promises that it won’t happen; how does Tom cope, cut adrift from Sybil with no anchor like she has?

“I know … will you talk to him, while I’m gone?”

“What am I to say to him?” It sounds harder than it did in Mary’s head, so she softens it with, “I don’t even know how to live without my sister, Matthew. How am I to help Tom live without her?”

“I didn’t say help him, Mary. Just … you can be warm, you know. I know you think you can’t but you can.”

Mary finds Tom in the nursery, bouncing his daughter on his lap. His cheeks are flushed and bright and his whole focus is on the little girl in front of him so he doesn’t hear Mary when she slips into the room and takes a seat. She stares at Tom’s forlorn face and thinks about Matthew’s words. _You can be warm, you know_. She clears her throat, delicately of course. It’s a small sound in a silent room and Tom’s head jerks upwards.

“Lady Mary. I didn’t hear you come in.” “Its alright, no harm done.” Mary stares at her black skirt, smoothes down a crease. She feels like she has worn enough black to last a lifetime. “I saw you walking, this morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“That’s understandable.” _You can be warm, Matthew thinks so. Be warm, to your dead sister’s husband. Be warm, to your niece’s father. Be warm, because Tom’s world has ended and he’s a good man and you are a good woman_. “I was thinking … Matthew has gone to London for the week. He won’t be back until Friday. I’ve never seen Downton at sunrise.”

Tom smiles, if you can call it that. “That’s very kind of you, Lady Mary, but I don’t need you to walk with me.”

“Its Mary, Tom. You’re family now, remember?”

Tom looks away, returns his attention to his daughter. “Good day, Mary.”

Mary’s hand lingers on the door, wanting to say more. _I failed, Matthew. You were wrong to put so much faith in me_. She pulls the door closed and leaves Tom to his grief.

Mary’s awake the next day, not able to sleep because Matthew isn’t there with her. _How did she manage, before he came into her bed and made the sheets so warm and inviting?_ So she sits at the window and watches her brother-in-law with Isis in the dark morning mist, feels her own grief unfurl in her stomach. She misses Sybil so much that she can’t find the words.Sunrise comes like a slow yawn against the trees and the hills and Mary has never seen anything more beautiful. Its all lazy yellows and oranges and it groans and pushes and floods the land with beauty and light and warmth.

Mary doesn’t see Tom come in from her window, but he’s there when she ventures downstairs for breakfast. “I didn’t see you come back from your walk this morning.” She slides into the chair opposite him.

“I haven’t been back long.” There’s a slight dirt smudge on Tom’s cheek, his clothes smell fresh and full of nature.

Mary sips her tea, nods. “I saw my first sunrise this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.”

“It was very nice.”

Mary sets down her cup and stares at her brother-in-law. _You can be warm, Mary_. “I’m sure it would be particularly spectacular from the ridge about a mile from here. I thought that tomorrow morning we might walk up there together, you and I. What do you say?”

“I don’t think I would be particularly good company, Mary.”

“Well we wouldn’t have to talk. Sometimes talking spoils a good walk, don’t you think?”

Tom reaches for his tea, adds sugar and milk. “As you please.”

###

Mary isn’t exactly sure what one should wear for a sunrise walk with a grieving-brother-in-law, eventually settles on a woollen dress and thick stockings, a silk blouse with pearl buttons that Matthew loves and she wants to feel like he is there with them, as this whole thing was his idea. She wears her sturdiest, most comfortable shoes and a thick woollen coat in red with a matching hat.

“I think its very nice, what you’re doing.” Anna finds Mary’s warmest gloves and presses them into Mary’s hands.

“Tom’s family. Matthew thinks it’s a good idea, and its what Sybil would have wanted.”

Tom’s waiting for her in the hallway, hat in his hand. Like her he’s dressed thinking that it would be cold, with shoes that look a lot more comfortable than Mary’s. He gives her a brief nod when she greets him, and then they set off. Mary’s no great walker and Tom’s pace is a little faster than she would like, but she bears it without complaint. Dawn is breaking and Isis is soon lost chasing squirrels or rabbits, and soon it is just Mary and Tom and the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. Several times Mary opens her mouth to speak until she remembers her words to Tom and she presses her lips together.

They reach the ridge just as the sun peeks through the land, yellows and oranges and everything warm. Mary’s heart is racing by the time they reach the ascent, her blood is pumping and a curl has slipped its place under her hat.

“Beautiful.” She breathes into the morning, her face bathed in the sunlight. “Just beautiful.”

Tom stands to one side, several feet from her. His cheeks are wet as he watches the sun rise. Mary opens her mouth, to offer words of comfort, but no words come. So she just stands next to him as they watch the sun rise together.

When Mary returns home she finds a blister the side of a shilling on her right foot and a run in her stockings, but she still says, “So I’ll see you tomorrow?” To Tom before they all retire to bed.

###

Matthew joins them, upon his return from London. Mary’s feet harden and Matthew buys her some practical shoes from Rippon made from leather as soft as silk. He is such easy company, her husband, easy to talk to and easy to listen to. He is like the sun that she sees every morning, warming her like nothing else. He stands on one side of Tom, afraid that if he takes Mary’s hand or arm it will just upset his friend, who has no hand to take, so the three of them walk every morning according to the sun. Sometimes Matthew will offer a word about the wildlife, or the plants, or a snippet he has learned about Downton’s history; he even finds facts that Mary herself doesn’t know.

Tom doesn’t say anything throughout these walks, but he’s there every morning just the same.

###

“I’m thinking of taking Sybil away.” Tom’s voice is soft, soon swallowed up by the early morning dew. Despite the time of year its still cold in the mornings; the three of them are still wearing winter coats. “Ireland, or maybe Liverpool.”

Matthew looks stricken. “Tom, are you sure?”

“No. But I can’t stay here.”

“Of course you can.” Mary reaches for Matthew’s hand. “Tom, you can’t leave.”

“I can’t stay here.” Tom shakes his head. “Everywhere I go, all I see is her. What kind of father can I be to Sybbie when all I see is her mother?” He stares out across the land that his wife called their home. “We have family there. Is it so wrong for me to want her to know them?”

“You must speak with Tom.” Mary says as she and Matthew lie in bed that night, moonlight on bare skin. “He can’t take Sybil away.”

“She’s his daughter, Mary.” Matthew presses feather-light kisses along her arms. “He must try to make a life for them. It must be so hard to do it here, with Sybil gone.”

“We are not so wholly horrible, are we?”

“Not at all.” Matthew kisses her with a little more force. “But you aren’t Tom’s people. You know he feels strange, being here.”

“But we are Sybil’s.” Mary clings to Matthew’s arm, weakness she will never let anyone but him see. “I would hate to think of any child of ours not knowing Downton as I do.”

Matthew strokes Mary’s hair. “You know it isn’t your decision. But I will speak to him, if you wish.”

The two men are gone the next day; Mary leaves them to it and takes Sybil for a walk. The little girl is so like her mother that Mary cries on the walk back from the village. What she wouldn’t give to hear her sister laugh or talk politics with her father. But Sybil is dead and alive all at the same time, so Mary hugs her niece as hard as she can and waits for Matthew and Tom to come home.

###

They walk for miles in rain and snow, sometimes three of them, sometimes two, it doesn’t much matter which. Sometimes they talk, most times they stay silent. They always stop when they reach the ridge, that beautiful place where the sun always shines, and its always the most beautiful thing that Mary’s ever seen. Sometimes, its so beautiful that Mary feels tears on her skin. The sun always takes them before they reach her chin. And Mary likes to think, although she’d never admit it, that its actually Sybil, wiping away her tears and thanking her and Matthew for taking care of Tom when she isn’t able to.

###

There are no more walks after Matthew dies. There are no more walks, no more feather-light kisses on Mary’s skin, no more gentle smiles and you can be warm. There is no sun. There is just nothing but a baby that cries throughout the funeral and won’t stop crying and a picture on the mantle and cold sheets that are never warm.

Mary feels eyes on her, of course. She feels her father’s worry and the way he tries to shield her from the estate’s affairs. She feels her mother’s insistent worry and concern, her grandmother’s practical questions because her grandmother is living proof that life always goes on. Edith tries her hardest to make sympathetic noises but the two sisters have never been close and Mary doesn’t expect that to start now, not when Gregson goes to Germany and Edith suddenly has more pressing problems. Carson and Anna and Bates, even cold-hearted Thomas all stare at her with soft eyes as she ghosts through the estate and she wishes that she was invisible because it there’s one thing that Mary hates its being pitied.

“The grounds are looking nice, this time of year.” Tom spoons warm porridge into his mouth one chilly autumn day. “I thought you might want to get some fresh air. You’ve been shut in this house for months. People are starting to forget what you look like.”

Mary pushes her food around her plate, cuts it into smaller and smaller pieces to give the impression she’s actually eating. “I see enough from my window, thank you, Tom.”

Tom takes a drink of tea, a generous slurp rather than a dainty sip. Even after all this time he still isn’t one of her people, her people who have tiptoed around her like she’s a fragile breakable thing. Instead, its Sybil’s Irish chauffer husband who says, “Mary, you’ve been in the land of the dead too long. Matthew wouldn’t want this.”

“How would you know what Matthew wanted?”

“I know it wouldn’t have been this.” Tom sets down his spoon, ignores the bug-eyed expressions Thomas and Carson are throwing his way. “Anna’s laid your coat and hat out on the bed. You’ll need to wear those shoes that Matthew brought you, and your gloves. Can’t have you getting a chill. I’ll meet you down here in ten minutes.”

Mary pushes her plate away. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Tom, but-“

“Ten minutes, Mary. Come on, we’ll bring the babies. They need fresh air as much as you do.”

 _George._ Mary’s heart pulls when she thinks of her and Matthew’s son. _This wasn’t our arrangement. I never wanted to do this alone. I can’t do this alone. Why, why did you have to leave?_

The coat is the same one she wore when she and Tom first went for their walk, cheery red with a matching hat. It reminds Mary of the blood they found on the side of the road. Her parents don’t know but Mary went there, early one morning, not long after it had happened. It hadn’t rained and the blood had dried, dark and hard against the ruined earth and tree. She sets the coat aside in favour of a green one. No black; she cannot bear any more black.

True to his word, Tom is waiting for her in the hallway. Sybil’s walking now but George is in a pram, two beady eyes swaddled in fluffy blankets. He gurgles and smiles when he sees Mary and she wants to turn around and go back to her bedroom and shut the door.

“I’ll take George.” Tom’s wearing worn leather gloves and they creak when he takes the pram. “Why don’t you take Sybil?”

 _Sybil_. Mary stares at the young girl, so like her mother expect across the eyes that are the colour of the Irish Sea. Her niece gurgles happily, reaches for Mary’s hand with chubby fingers. She’s surprisingly strong and just as determined as her mother; nothing on earth is going to stop her lurching and struggling after her father on chunky legs.

“Mary?” Tom stops in the hallway. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.” Mary takes Sybil’s hand and follows Tom outside.

Its chilly outside, colder than Mary thought it would be. Their pace is slow but Sybil soon tires and Tom carries her, leaving Mary to push George. She looks at the handle, the blanket that her grandmother sent from America, the gravel on the path, anywhere but George’s eyes. She looks at George and she sees Matthew and she can’t bear to think about taking this walk without him.

Tom’s lilt is soothing and slow, gentle and kind and he walks her through the changes that have happened since she last took this stroll with him. Mary hears but doesn’t listen, his voice like gentle waves she can imagine crashing against a beach or great ship. She and Matthew talked about going to America, taking a cruise even though the Crawleys don’t seem to do well on boats. Or cars. Eventually they reach the ridge but the sun is clear in the sky. There’s a smattering of dark clouds, bad weather ahead. Mary stares at the golden orb in the sky and feels colder than she has in a long time.

“Its colder here than I expected.” Tom’s leaning against a tree, watching Sybil walk, his hand on George’s pram. “We shouldn’t stay here too long.”

“Please don’t ever bring me here again.” Mary turns and walks down the path and Tom has to struggle to keep up with her.

The walk tires Mary and by dinner she’s falling asleep, half-afraid that her head will hit the soup bowl and splash Mrs Patmore’s dinner onto the white cloth. For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t dream and wakes when it is still dark. The house is still and she wanders the halls. Downton is never empty; there is always someone there to light fires, answer the phone or the door, someone to wait on her every whim. But now, with the house largely asleep, Mary wonders if this silence, this emptiness, is what it must be like when no-one lives here.

Dawn is creeping on Mary when she sets foot outside, her feet heavy on the gravel. Its cold and she’s glad for her coat. There’s early morning dew everywhere, even in the air, and Mary’s face is damp with a thin sheen of moisture as she makes a new route around the property that should be hers if the world was more just. But its unfairness brought her Matthew and George; doesn’t that make up for it, even if it is just a little?

The dark makes her pay more attention to her surroundings, and as Mary walks she sees what Tom was talking about: renovated buildings, different crop pastures, even the noises made by animals. She finds a field of cows and stands at the fence, watching the animals amble around without a care in the world. One comes closer; it’s much bigger than she realised and its enormous mouth moves backwards and forwards as it chews, beautiful black eyes staring at Mary with undisguised curiosity.

“Lady Mary.”

Mary turns around to find the farmer standing behind her, staring at her like he’s seen a ghost. “Good morning.”

"I, uh … are you alright, m’lady?”

“I’m fine.” Mary pulls herself up to her full height, difficult as that is when one’s heels are sinking into mud. “I hear that some changes have been made to the estates, since … well, recently.”

The farmer tips his hat although his terrified expression doesn’t shift. “Yes, m’lady.”

Mary smiles. “I look forward to you telling me about these cows.”

###

Tom’s out on his morning walk when he hears them. He’d recognise Lady Mary’s voice anywhere, but he’s surprised when he rounds the corner and finds her talking to one of Downton’s farmers with a rapt expression on her face. Her hair’s a little wilder than usual and her shoes muddy, and one of the cows is paying far too much attention to the flower in her hat, but her eyes are sharp and she nods and asks questions that the farmer is attempting to answer as best he can. Tom smiles to himself and backs away before Mary spots him, but she calls his name before he’s gone ten steps.

“Are there any other changes you and my father have made to the running of this estate?”

Tom smiles and tips his hat as she joins him. The flower is missing from her hat but she hasn’t noticed. “A great many, Lady Mary.”

“I look forward to hearing about them.”

###

Their walks become more, than what they were. They are exercise, a chance to strategize about the estate, to discuss her father’s plans when they disagree and need to offer an alternative, to talk about their children, and on occasion, other things.

“I’m worried about Edith.” Mary says to Tom one spring day. “She’s talking about going to Germany to search for Gregson.”

“Your sister has had poor luck with suitors. Although I hear that your luck is about to change.”

Mary sighs. “Not you, too. These walks are the only chance I get to get away from my parents’ scheming.”

Tom smiles. “They just want you to be happy.”

“They want you to be happy too, but they aren’t parading suitors in front of you.”

“You know that isn’t what they’re doing.”

Mary’s very quiet for a long time. “I do not wish to get married again, Tom.”

“You’re still grieving.”

“Do you want to marry again?”

Grief passes over Tom’s face but its caught and tucked away in a quick, practised motion. “Once was enough for me.”

“See? We are not so different after all, are we?”

###

Gillingham, Napier and Blake all try to entreat her to walk with them, during their frequent visits to Downton. “You must allow me to escort you around the estate.” Tony says as they stroll in Downton’s shadow on a warm summer day. “Tom’s told me how beautiful the estate is, although I’m sure it could never be as beautiful as my companion.”

Mary smiles, although she feels a little ill inside. Tony’s nice, just like Evelyn and Charles are nice, but she thinks about taking a walk with either of them and goes a little cold. “Cows and pigs? Not really your thing, is it, Tony?”

“It could be.” Tony takes her hand and squeezes and Mary wonders if he could warm her bedsheets the same way Matthew did. “I mean it, Mary. I’m not asking to replace Matthew, because I know I could never do that, but you shouldn’t spend the rest of your life alone, or grieving. Matthew wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Mary smiles that faint smile again, because what else is she to say? Once Tony’s gone she takes to the paths, walking and walking until she doesn’t know where she is. She finds another field of cows, a field of crops almost ready to be harvested, and tries to imagine Tony, or Evelyn, or Charles Blake at her side as she makes these walks, tries to imagine how they would react when she explained Downton’s vision, its legacy. Do they love this land like she does? Do they feel its weight? She thinks not.

Tom finds her as she’s walking back towards the house. “Mary, I was just about to take a walk. Would you care to join me? I need to talk to you about a plan your father has.”

Mary’s hungry and tired, but not quite ready to go back just yet. So she just smiles, falls into step beside Tom, and listens to him talk until he asks for her opinion.

###

Rose comes with them, just once. She’s new at Downton and prowls the grounds like a caged lion, anxious for the prey she found in London. She leaves them at the turnoff for the village, craving variation, even if the village can’t offer very much at all.

“I think Rose has cabin fever.” Tom pushes brambles out of their way. It’s the early afternoon and the sun is high in the sky.

Thirst itches Mary’s throat. “You can’t blame her. Downton must seem terribly dreary, after London.” Mary stares at the hills and grass, wonders if she’ll ever get enough of this land, of the wind that blows like Matthew is pressing feather-light kisses across her face. He has been gone over a year now and only now can she think about him without wanting to tear out her heart.

“I hear Tony Gillingham proposed.” Tom follows her gaze, points out a bird’s nest just ahead. “I also hear that you said no.”

“I’ve already told you that I do not wish to marry again, Tom.”

“Maybe not now. Maybe one day.”

Mary sighs, surprises herself by pulling a blackberry from a bush and eating it. Carson would be ashamed of her, but Mary has discovered that she has something of a shameful streak. Mr Pamuk is evidence of that. She hasn’t thought about him in so long but as she looks at Tom she finds that she wants to tell him, about Pamuk. She wants to hear his opinion of her shameful little secret. Maybe she will tell him, one day. Does he hide shameful secrets of his own behind those blue eyes of his?

“Matthew once told me that he would never be happy with anyone else so long as I walked the earth. Will I find that kind of love again, do you think?”

“I don’t know. But what I do know is that if you’re asking me about it, you haven’t found it with Tony Gillingham.”

###

The closest any of them come is Charles Blake. They sit in mud-covered clothes at Mrs Patmore’s table while Mary scrambles eggs and watches her companion with new eyes. He’s dark where Matthew is fair, lean where Matthew was heavier, shorter where Matthew was tall. But he has Matthew’s easy laugh, now she has seen it, and watches her with such rapt interest it makes her feel a little self-conscious. She opens her mouth to ask him when they part ways: _I take a walk with Tom Branson every morning, would you like to come and see the estate?_ The words sit on her tongue, but go no further.

“I half-expected to see Charles Blake this morning.” Tom’s waiting for her when Mary comes downstairs.

Mary stifles a yawn. She’s not so young anymore and sleep deprivation is one of life’s crueller punishments but she wanted to walk. “No, I imagine he retired to bed.”

“I heard about your adventures with the pigs.” Tom can’t contain a smile. “That is a sight I should have liked to have seen.”

Mary returns his smile, and takes the lead. “Let’s go for our walk, Tom.”

###

The walks become longer. Sometimes they take a stroll around the grounds before dinner, to watch the sunsets. If Mary thought the sunrises were beautiful, the sunsets take her breath away. Anna always leaves a coat and hat on the bed in case Mary should need them.

“What do you think they talk about, on those walks?” Lord Grantham stares out of the drawing room window and watches the two retreating backs or his daughter and son-in-law.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Cora focuses on her sewing. Its easier to focus on that than the smile that’s twitching at her mouth. “The running of the estate, I expect.”

“They spend a lot of time together.” Grantham pauses, his fingers on his glass. “Cora, you don’t think-“

“I don’t know, Robert.” Cora smiles at her husband. “Would it be so terrible, if they were?”

“He was married to her sister!”

“Robert, Sybil has been dead longer than she and Tom were married. Haven’t you noticed, how things are around here, now? Sybil is still here, George is happy – our daughter laughs again, Robert. Do you really think that is the work of Tony Gillingham or Charles Blake? Because I don’t. And with one daughter in Europe and another dead, I need at least one of my daughters to be happy.”

###

The autumn seems colder this year; Mary isn’t sure what it is. Maybe it’s the worrisome noises coming from Europe, the headlines that predict nothing but doom and gloom, or the way the cold mist hangs in the air like a bad dream. Downton stands immune to it all, or so it seems: her father talks about Europe like its some faraway place while she and Tom exchange worried looks over breakfast and Edith walks around the grounds for hours, returning red-eyed and frail. Rose floats around the house like a young deer in lace and tulle; Mary cannot remember what it is to be young or to feel young, so young that love and romance are the only thoughts that fill her head. Its times like this that Mary misses Sybil; her youngest sister was always young, but she had a depth and quality of vision that Rose lacks. Mary would feel guilty about comparing Rose and her sister if she didn’t miss Sybil so much it made her chest hurt, and at times like that she seeks out the one person who will know how she feels.

“I feel like I’m in a bubble.” Mary says as she and Tom take a morning stroll around the grounds. Its dark but the sun is pushing through the earth for another day. “I read all these terrible things in the paper, but its like we’re stuck in time. Nothing affects us, does it?”

“One of the advantages of wealth.” Tom’s face is shadows in the still morning, his breath clinging to the air like its his last on this earth.

“Perhaps. But its more than that.”

“How so?” Tom’s cheeks are flushed, slightly ruddy from the cold. There’s no-one around, just sheep and cows and the rolling hills that she loves so much.

Mary sighs, reaches into her purse. “I had a letter yesterday. From Charles Blake.”

“One of Mary’s Men.”

“Don’t you start.” Mary says, a little too sharply than she intended.

“What did your friend Mister Blake want?”

Mary smoothes down the crumbled letter and stares at the words. So many beautiful words crumpled in a purse to be pulled out and read. “Oh, you know, this and that. He has a nice hand, that’s for sure. Why is it that all the men I know have nicer handwriting than I do?”

Tom stares at the land beneath them. “Shame to spoil our walk with a whole lot of talk about nothing. Something’s on your mind, so let’s hear it.”

Mary stares at her dead sister’s husband and wonders how in the world he went from her chauffer to confidante. Maybe she doesn’t live in a bubble, after all. “He … he wants to marry me.”

“I don’t think that’s news, Mary.” Tom’s voice is not unkind, just firm. “You could have your pick, if you wanted.”

“He wants to see me when we all go to London for Rose’s coming out.”

Tom shakes his head. “Sybil will never have to do that.”

“She might surprise you and want to.”

Tom stares at his little girl, who is play-fighting with a tree and a sword made from a felled branch. “Her hero right now is Lancelot. I don’t think there’s much danger of her dressing up for dinner. And you wouldn’t want her to be trapped in this life, would you?”

“Times are changing.”

“But not fast enough for you to inherit the estate in your own right.”

“No, but George is still young.” Mary sighs, reaches into her purse. “Tom, I want to tell you something.”

Tom stops his walk, stares at Mary with those deep blue eyes and serious expression, and Mary falters, words on the tip of her tongue. But she started this and she’s a Crawley and she’s going to finish what she’s started. “I went to see a man in Rippon, a few weeks ago. He helped Matthew, from time to time.”

“Alright.”

“You see, what happened to Matthew, and to Sybil … our lives are so short, aren’t they? We like to think that we’ll live as long as Granny and we’ll die in our beds, but often we don’t. I wish I could think of a year where I didn’t wear black, but I can’t. You can call me morbid if you like, but I want you to know that I’ve made a will, arrangement, whatever you want to call it. Tom, if something should happen to me, before George is fully grown … I want you to take care of him.”

“Of course I’ll always take care of him.” Tom’s face relaxes. He had obviously expected something much worse. “He’s yours and Matthew’s son, he’s Sybil’s cousin-“

“No, Tom.” Mary’s words are coming out in a rush but she can’t stop now. “No, that is not what I mean. What I mean, is that …. You are to be his guardian, if something should happen to me.”

“Mary-“

“No, please let me finish. My parents are getting older. I can’t pretend that Edith and I are close and I don’t think she would know how to take care of a child, even if it was her own. Even if none of those things were true, you have done so much for me, you did so much, for Matthew and I … its what he would want, and its what I want. You understand what it is to live here without the other rules that come with it. I don’t want my son to grow up bound by as many rules as I have been, but I don’t want him to forget where he comes from. It has to be you, Tom. It can’t be anyone else, don’t you understand?”

Tom doesn’t say anything for a long time, he just stares at Mary and Matthew’s son, the last bit of Matthew that she has. “Well alright then.”

They walk in silence for a little while until Tom says, “Since we’re being honest like this … I’ve done the same, for you and Sybil. She needs a mother, Mary, and you can be so warm, when you want to be.”

###

London is loud and obnoxious and Mary wants to go home. Tony and Charles are both there, seemingly hiding behind every pillar. They’re amiable and handsome and years ago Mary might have enjoyed the thrill of being chased. Now she just wants to be at home where she can walk the grounds and be left at peace.

Tom arrives on the second night and homesickness lurches in Mary’s chest when she sees him. He looks harried and anxious, finds her eyes and gives her a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” She says to him as they dance after Rose’s coming out. His hand is on her waist but his grip is heavier than it should be. He’s never felt comfortable at these parties.

“I haven’t, I assure you.”

“You’re a poor liar, Tom.” Mary stares into those blue eyes and wishes she knew the answers there. “You’ve been on edge since you got here. Has something happened? Is Sybil alright-“

“Sybil is fine.” Tom gives her a smile, twirls her even if everyone else is waltzing. “Let’s take a stroll tomorrow. I miss the fresh air.”

London is dirty and noisy, but they take a carriage to Hyde Park and walk in artificial calmness. “Are you going to tell me what’s troubling you, Tom?”

“I think that you would be ashamed of me if I did.”

“I doubt that. You are not happy and you must talk to someone. If not me, then someone else.”

Tom stops her and they sit down on a bench, opposite a fountain. His words are halting and his cheeks crimson, but he tells her about Sarah and the Downton tour. “She only wanted to see the upstairs.” He says as forcefully as he can. “She’s never seen the house before, and just wanted to look down on the balcony. I’m sorry if you think I betrayed your trust or took advantage of your family’s absence, but there’s nothing but innocence to it.”

Mary’s throat feels tight and she isn’t quite prepared to think about why. “I believe you.” She says, because Tom is her friend and she owes him so much and she really does believe him and she doesn’t want to think about why it hurts when she sees his face smile.

###

Mary shares a carriage with Isobel on the way back to Downton. They haven’t seen a great deal of each other and Mary has almost forgotten her mother-in-law’s blunt manner.

“How long were you married to my son, Mary?”

“Have you forgotten, Isobel?”

“No.” Isobel stares out of the carriage window and smiles. “Just humour your mother-in-law, if you would.”

Mary swallows. “Would you like it in months, or weeks and days? If you give me paper and ink I could probably tell you down to the minute.”

Isobel reaches for her daughter-in-law’s hands. “I know that you loved my son, Mary. I know that you loved him for a long time before you got married, and a long time after he died. But he has been dead for two years.” Isobel sighs. “I didn’t like you, when I first met you. I thought you terribly aloof but that’s your way, isn’t it? Manners and rules to keep emotions hidden away, like they’re wrong. I’m glad, that Matthew showed you that they weren’t a weakness. He loved you so much, and it was so hard not to love you when he loved you so well. And you loved my son, so I loved you for that.” Isobel presses her lips together and Mary can tell that whatever it is that the older woman wants to say, it is incredibly hard. “I won’t stop loving you if you love someone else.”

“Isobel-“

“No, Mary, hear me out, because I think you need to hear it. I won’t stop loving you if you love someone else. You won’t be betraying Matthew if you have fallen in love with someone else. No one will think the less of you, if you have fallen in love with someone else.”

Mary sighs. “Isobel, if this is about Tony Gillingham or Charles Blake-“

“This isn’t about either of them and you know it.” Isobel looks insulted. “This is about Tom Branson, and I think you know that as well as I do.”

Mary stands up. “I think that’s quite enough, Isobel. Truly, I appreciate you trying to help, I really do. But I don’t love Tom. I don’t.” Mary leaves the carriage, shuts the door with more force than is necessary.

_I don’t love Tom. I don’t._

_Don’t I?_

###

“I stayed behind while the others went ahead.” Tom’s waiting for her as she alights the train. “I haven’t driven for a while, thought we could drive back together, see the grounds from other angle. And Mrs Crawley.” He says when Isobel follows Mary. “I didn’t realise you and Lady Mary had come together.”

“We had quite the journey, didn’t we, Mary?”

Tom’s a good driver and Mary tries not to grip her purse too tightly. Even now, car journeys make her nervous. Tom went ahead with the rest of the Crawleys and has stories aplenty; one of the farmers has adopted a baby and Edith has taken quite a shine to it.

“Let’s hope the farmer’s wife doesn’t mind too much.” Mary says.

“I think its marvellous.” Isobel says from the back seat. “Edith needs some love in her life, after her luck. We all need a second chance at love.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Mrs Crawley.” Tom smiles and Mary just stares out of the window, not trusting herself to speak.

She hurries upstairs as soon as they’re back at Downton, changes into a dress that she hasn’t worn since before she had George. Its pale blue and probably more suitable for the spring instead of summer but Mary just wants to wear something other than black. She wants to wear something other than black as she sits beside Tom Branson at dinner and tries to work out if she has fallen in love with her dead sister’s husband.

“Mrs Patmore’s outdone herself this time, don’t you think, Mary?” Tom says as they eat their soup.

“Oh …yes, very good.” Mary’s eaten her fill but hasn’t tasted any. Her dress feels tight and her hair too tight and her gloves tight and everything tight and she wants to walk and walk and feel the rain on her face.

She stares at Tom’s face, the same face she has seen every day for the last thousands days. He’s aging well, no grey or fine lines, and he always has a ready smile. His is a nice face, quick to laugh and slow to anger. He’s a good man. He’s not one of them but he has his own rules and his own honour and he has never treated her like she’s fragile and for that she will always love him. He’s never hidden the estate from her like her father, or tried to wrap her in cotton and silk, been eager to possess her like Richard Carlisle or tried to woo her like Gillingham and Blake. He has just been … him. He is kind, and he is good, and he is staring at her with dancing blue eyes and she realises with sinking horror that Isobel might actually be right.

###

Mary stays up late that night, writing to Charles Blake. The letter isn’t long but he deserves to know that she won’t be accepting his proposal now, or ever. Similar, if shorter letters go to Evelyn Napier and to Tony Gillingham. As nice as they are, she knows that their paths are not to be walked together.

“Some post to go, Lady Mary?” Carson stands with a silver tray, ready to send someone to the post office, but Mary refuses.

“Actually, Carson, I think I might drive to the village.”

Carson’s expression doesn’t change but his eyes can’t hide his surprise. “Drive, my lady?”

“Yes.” Mary smoothes down her red coat. “It’s a nice day, why not?”

Mary’s hands shake as she grips the steering wheel. _Tom had made it look so easy_. After a few false starts she is on her way to the village, the three letters in her purse on the passenger seat. She passes the road where Matthew died and lets the tears fall. He loved her, and she loved him, but he is gone and she is here and she has to keep living.

The letters go and Mary feels lighter once they are out of her hands. She cannot deceive them, or herself, any longer. They will understand, of that she is sure. They are not stupid men any more than they are cruel or neglectful. They are just not for her.

She stops at the cemetery on her way back to the car. Matthew’s headstone is imposing and she hates it and knows that he would, too and for that reason she never visits him here, but she is here and she can’t not go to her husband’s final resting place. A quick touch of a gloved hand against his headstone and she is done.

Sybil rests in the family plot, a simple headstone picked out by Tom. Mary has never heard him speak of visiting her, although she is sure that she must. But she sits down and twists her hands together.

“I’m sure you know why I’m here.” She says. “You must be laughing, to see your sister talking to your headstone. I miss you, Sybil. I miss you so much that sometimes it makes me forget what you look like. I’ve saved some pictures, for Sybbie, so she’ll know you when she gets older. I will never let her forget you. I’m not here, to ask for your blessing; you’ve only ever wanted us both happy, but I would like it all the same. You see, I think I could be happy again, that I could marry again. Its alright if it doesn’t happen; we Crawleys are made of stern stuff so I’m sure that I would cope quite well. But Matthew once told me that he could never be happy with anyone else, so long as I walked the earth. I didn’t think I would find that again, but now I think that I could be that happy again. If he will let me, I will take good care of him.”

She drives back to Downton, wants to close her eyes and be carried away with the wind and the sun, but then that would mean two Crawleys dead and George an orphan and never in Mary’s darkest moments did she think of that. So she focuses on her drive until she spies the lane she is looking for. Her shoes aren’t made for walking and a lemon dress and coat is most unsuitable attire, but Mary doesn’t care.

She parks the car and walks, walks and walks until the ridge comes into the distance and she sighs. Here is Matthew, waiting for her. She can almost see him, sunny smile and blonde hair, those warm arms that kept her safe and reminded her that she could be warm. She climbs as fast as she can; the sun is setting and she doesn’t want to miss it. The sky is red and pink and orange and all the colours of the rainbow and Mary stands and surveys it all, this land that was hers and Matthew’s and will now be hers and George’s. This land is in her blood and her soul like Matthew is, so she stands on the ridge in the sunset and cries for her husband because this will be the last time. Matthew is gone, but she is alive and her son is alive, and she has so much to live for that to curl up and die would be such a waste of two lives. She doesn’t speak, because she doesn’t need to, and even if she did, she wouldn’t be able to find the words. So she just stands there and lets her tears and her heart say everything. She doesn’t know how long she stands there, watching the sunset, but when she turns to go, Tom is standing there beside her, watching her with eyes that look purple in the dusk.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” His voice is quiet and husky. “Isobel asked me if I wanted to walk with her. We saw your car on our way back, but she told me to go and find you. I just didn’t think I’d find you here.”

“You walked with Isobel?”

Tom nods. “She said you’d gone to the village.”

“I was posting some letters. To Charles Blake, and Tony Gillingham, actually.” Mary smiles, looks at the ground. Its wet and her shoes are likely ruined but she doesn’t care. “Do you remember when I said that I didn’t want to get married again?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I changed my mind. You see, I would like to get married again, but just not to them.”

"I see.” A smile that Mary wants to describe as hopeful creeps into Tom’s mouth. “Did you have anyone else in mind?”

Mary feels her smile get wider. The sun is setting on the land, and today has been a good day. “I believe so.”

Tom nods, and offers Mary his arm. “Shall we take a walk, while you tell me all about it?”

Mary takes Tom’s arm. Its solid and firm and warm, beneath his coat. _He is warm. I can be warm. I am warm_. “I’d like that.”


	2. Tom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A number of people asked me if I would do a companion piece from Tom's perspective, including the proposal, so here it is, hope you enjoy!

Tom likes to walk Downton's grounds. Aside from his home in Ireland, he has seen fewer beautiful places. And it gave him his Sybils, so it can't be all bad.

He used to walk when he first came to Downton as an angry firebrand chauffeur so sure he knew everything about class just because he had read Marx. Now, some years, a marriage, a baby and a dead wife later he thinks he's forgotten more than he used to know about class struggle. Or maybe the struggles of a class are nothing to the struggle of waking up and having his bed empty. He's started walking to try to remember, not just who he was but who Sybil was. A year of marriage is tragically little and he cannot bear his cold sheets, so he walks.

One day he's up before the servants and almost gives young Daisy a heart attack when she comes into the dining room and spies him reading Tennyson by the early morning light.

"Sorry, I'll come back." She backs out the door with a look of mortification on her face.

Tom stares at the black armband on her arm, the slim band she wears on her finger. He knows that Daisy's feelings for William were different to what he felt for Sybil, but she's the only one who has lost a spouse and he feels so alone he thinks his heart would break some more. "Don't go on my account, Tennyson will still be dead when we're done. Please, stay and do your work."

Daisy nods and begins her tasks and its strange, watching her. He just wishes they would call him Tom. "Do you miss William, Daisy?"

"Every day, Mr Branson."

Tom opens his mouth to correct her but realises there isn't much point. They have their ways, the English and their servants. So he leaves Daisy to her work and takes his Tennyson and his grief upstairs to see his daughter, but she's sleeping and her nanny is insistent that little Sybil's sleep routine won't be disturbed for anyone, not even her father.

Tom's mother wants to come and visit. What would she think of this world of titles and sleep routines and her son who has forgotten his convictions and himself? He starts prowling the grounds like a madman. Maybe he is going mad with grief, will turn into a creature that Sybil wouldn't recognise. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't know who he is or where he belongs. He belonged with Sybil but she is gone and he is here and what is he meant to do?

To his immense surprise, it is Mary Crawley, the iceberg melted by Matthew's easy smile and gentle manners, who makes the first move.

He's in the nursery, bouncing his daughter on his lap when Mary does that delicate little throat clear that she has and steps into the room.

“Lady Mary. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Its alright, no harm done.” Mary's dressed for mourning; black becomes her. Sybil used to say that her eldest sister had the style of a fashion model with a wit like a rapier, but there's nothing but sad friendliness in Mary's manners as she comes into the room “I saw you walking, this morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Tom hasn't slept since Sybil died; each time he closes his eyes he sees her face, swollen and agonized, her last minutes on this earth torture. That image will haunt him for the rest of his life.

“That’s understandable.” Mary touches Sybil's hair, looks everywhere around the room until her eyes find Tom's. “I was thinking … Matthew has gone to London for the week. He won’t be back until Friday. I’ve never seen Downton at sunrise.”

Tom smiles. Openness and empathy do not come easily to Mary but they do to Matthew, and Mary love him very much. “That’s very kind of you, Lady Mary, but I don’t need you to walk with me.”

“Its Mary, Tom. You’re family now, remember?”

Tom looks away, returns his attention to his daughter. “Good day, Mary.”

Mary’s footsteps linger at the door but she's too polite to push and for once Tom is glad of their ritualistic manners. Eventually, she hand lingers on the door, wanting to say more but too polite to push and for once Tom's glad of their manners. She pulls the door closed and leaves Tom to his grief.

Matthew catches Tom as he's about to leave for London. "Be a friend to Mary while I'm gone, will you?" Matthew has such blue eyes and an easy smile and had been such a good friend to Tom that Tom will never refuse him anything, and Tom might have lost a wife but Mary has lost her sister.

"Of course."

"Splendid." Matthew dons his hat. "She told me the other day she'd like to see the grounds. You like to walk, don't you?"

 _They're in this together_ , Tom thinks when Mary corners him at breakfast.

“I saw my first sunrise this morning." The teacup barely meets Mary's mouth as she takes a delicate little sip. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.”

Tom slurps his tea in a single gulp. “It was very nice.”

Mary sets down her cup. “I’m sure it would be particularly spectacular from the ridge about a mile from here. I thought that tomorrow morning we might walk up there together, you and I. What do you say?”

“I don’t think I would be particularly good company, Mary.”

Mary looks at him as though he's talking utter rubbish, her voice so sure when she speaks that he half-believes it himself. "Well we wouldn’t have to talk. Sometimes talking spoils a good walk, don’t you think?”

Tom reaches for his tea, adds sugar and milk. He knows when to admit defeat. “As you please.”

###

Tom dresses for the cool weather, a vest under his jacket, knitted by his mother's careful hand. His most comfortable shoes, worn and soft leather. Mary appears like a red vision down the stairs. None of the Crawley sisters are alike, Mary's glacial beauty nothing to Sybil's soft radiance, but Mary's smile lights up her face when she joins him in the hallway. He gives her a brief nod when she greets him, and then they set off.

Tom walks a little slower than he would usually, it's a little fast for Mary but she keeps her mouth shut. The urge to talk hangs around her body like the early morning mist, but she promised him she wouldn't talk and Tom is grateful for it. It's at that time when dawn is near and everything is orange and blue in the sky. Isis follows a squirrels or rabbit into the undergrowth, leaving him alone with his sister-in-law. Gravel sounds beneath their feet and birds fill the air and Tom is struck by a memory, shamefully tarnished by time even though it's barely more than a year old. It had been one of those mornings on their honeymoon, a gift from Cora. Two nights in a hotel just outside Dublin, the smell of the Liffey through the open windows. They had not slept, too excited by each other to rest. Sybil's skin had glowed in the dawn light as she'd touched him with soft, ponderous hands, lingering on every hairy plane and angle that he had. The memory is blurred but it's laziness is no less bitter than if it was sharp and clear, and by the time they reach the top of the ridge Tom's cheeks are wet and he doesn't know if he's ever going to stop crying.

They reach the ridge just as the sun peeks through the land, yellows and oranges and everything warm. Mary’s hair has slipped its pretty hat and a curl hangs free, so like Sybil's hair that Tom's hands fight to stay at their sides. _This grief is going to kill me_.

“Beautiful.” She breathes. “Just beautiful.”

Tom can't say anything but he's sure that Mary knows. Here, away from Downton and surrounded by nature, she's softer and warmer than he's seen before, and she doesn't turn around to see, let's him cry for his wife. They just stand together and watch the sun rise.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” She says to Tom before they all retire to bed. He tips his head and retreats to bed.

That night, he doesn't sleep, but he makes it to the bed and manages to lie down.

###

Matthew comes back on an early train and doesn't even bother to remove his coat. "The weather is fine and I've been itching to get out of that stuffy carriage for the past two hours!"

They walk until it turns dark, both Crawleys flanking him. Matthew has been dredging the depths of the Crawley archives and is full of scandal that he gleefully flings at Mary, stories of adultery and sin, forbidden live and embezzlement that sound like pulp fiction. Mary rolls her eyes and smiles, returns in like kind. Tom lets their words wash over him like they're a warm blanket, glad to be washed away by their chatter, a little life raft in the middle of the Irish Sea.

It becomes a habit of theirs, then, to walk together. Sometimes Matthew tells them a story about the wildlife, or another juicy morsel from Downton's history. When he's away and its just him and Mary they don't talk, but he finds now that his eyes open in the dark and he sits up in bed. He's sleeping again.

###

His mother writes often, telling him stories of his family. It's been years since Tom saw some of them and their faces are all beginning to blur into one. Some of his relatives have moved to Liverpool, they live in a terrace house with no nanny and no sleep schedule and they ask when Tom is coming to visit.

"I don't belong here." He says to Mary as they walk one morning. "It's different for you, even for Matthew."

"Good Lord, don't say that to Matthew." Mary has a smile for when she's teasing. It's playful and Tom likes how her mouth wears it. "You know he considers you both a bulwark against the ghastly upper classes. If you leave his shoulders will scarce bear the weight."

"Sybil has this whole family, my family, that she doesn't know."

"She doesn't know anyone, Tom. She's a baby. She only knows you because you feed her."

"She knows her mother." The morning dew steals Tom's tears. "I tell her something about her, every night, but it's getting harder. We weren't together for very long."

Mary smiles and there's nothing teasing about it. "Well how about this: if you stay, or decide to just go and visit your relatives, I will tell Sybil a different story about her mother every night. And I have twenty years’ worth of stories."

Tom stops short, at a complete loss for words. "You would do that?"

Mary looks caffeinated. "Don't sound so surprised. She is my niece. Right now she's the only heir Downton has."

Tom stares at Mary, resplendent in her coat of Caesarish purple. "There will be children, Mary. Crawley children. And the law is wrong, Mary."

"The world is full of wrong laws, Tom." Mary stares at the sunrise. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Well, of all the laws governing women, that one is one of the wrongest."

"Hush." Mary gently taps his arm. "This is your favourite part, isn't it? The sunrise? A shame to spoil it with talk of things we cannot change."

###

Tom never makes it to Liverpool. He writes as soon as he is able: Matthew is dead, Downton is a ship without an anchor, and he cannot abandon them when they need him.

They're making him talk about funerals and flowers like he cares. His friend is gone. His ally is gone. And Mary is gone with him. She slips away one morning in the car, a day or two after it happens. Tom follows at a distance, parks the car and watches her alight by the tree, gnarled and destroyed and then Tom sees the blood on the ground. It hasn't rained since the accident. Mary cries as though the world is ending and God has come down to judge her. She cries and weeps because she thinks that she is alone and will not allow anyone but her husband to see her this way. Tom only approaches when the rain finally comes, an umbrella over them both.

"Come now, Mary. Let's get you home."

"I have no home." Mary says. "My home is dead. All I have are cold sheets, and a baby that won't stop crying."

Tom drives them back to Downton, Mary grabs his arm when the spires come into view. "Say nothing of this. Mamma and Pappa have enough to worry about."

"Your secret is safe with me."

Tom hikes back to the lane in the rain for the other car. He's soaked by the time he's through and for a moment he just stands and stares at the spot of earth where his friend breathed his last. _What is Downton going to do without you? What is Mary going to do without you? What am I going to do without you?_

He receives a note from his uncle a few days after the funeral, a nightmarish day spent in a stiff-necked collar and very restrained grief. The note is smudged and smells like whiskey: _have you forsaken your own family?_ Tom stares at Sybil and Mary and Lord and Lady Grantham, at Isobel and Edith and Bates and Carson and even Isis, and throws the note into the fire.

"Would Lady Mary like to come for a walk today?" Tom asks one day at breakfast. "Bit of fresh air might do her good. We just got some new cows-"

"We should leave Mary to her grief, Tom." Lord Grantham drinks his tea as daintily as Mary does. "She doesn't need to be bothered with walks, and certainly not with cows."

"I don't agree." Tom slurps his tea and holds the cup in his hand rather than by the handle. "Lord Grantham, I think that Lady Mary needs something to take her mind off things-"

"She needs quiet. Tom. Look, I know you mean well, but these things really must be endured-"

"Mary is Downton's heir." Tom can feel Carson's eyes on the side of his head, almost out of their sockets. He doesn't care; his blood is on fire for the first time in months.

"George is Downton's heir." Lord Grantham's neck gets red when he's being contradicted.

"George is six months old!" Tom can't believe he's hearing this. "My Lord, you know that Matthew wanted Mary to be his heir; we all read that letter. Mary would be the heir if English law wasn't so barbaric-"

"Watch yourself, Tom."

Tom shakes his head. _That is where he draws the line?_ "She needs to be involved in the running of the estate."

"Duly noted." Lord Grantham picks up his paper. They eat the rest of their breakfast in silence.

###

He doesn't give up. He's just lucky that Anna is a willing accomplice.

"It's kind, what you're doing."

"Either that or foolhardy. And I know it's what Sybil would want. She loved Mary."

Anna smiles a sad smile. "You must miss her."

"Every day." She's been gone a year and Tom can finally think if her without feeling like he's drowning. "But without her and Matthew I wouldn't have survived losing Sybil. She deserves my help."

“The grounds are looking nice, this time of year.” Tom spoons warm porridge into his mouth one chilly autumn day. “I thought you might want to get some fresh air. You’ve been shut in this house for months. People are starting to forget what you look like.”

Mary pushes her food around her plate; she's lost weight. “I see enough from my window, thank you, Tom.”

Tom takes a drink of tea, decides that he needs to be more direct. "Mary, you’ve been in the land of the dead too long. Matthew wouldn’t want this, nor would Sybil.”

“How would you know what Matthew wanted?”

It stings, but it's meant to. Mary has always used words so well but Tom is learning, the more time he stays here. And he has never been one for games.

“I know it wouldn’t have been this.” Tom sets down his spoon, ignores the bug-eyed expressions Thomas and Carson are throwing his way. “Anna’s laid your coat and hat out on the bed. You’ll need to wear those shoes that Matthew brought you, and your gloves. Can’t have you getting a chill. I’ll meet you down here in ten minutes.”

Mary pushes her plate away. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Tom, but-“

“Ten minutes, Mary. Come on, we’ll bring the babies. They need fresh air as much as you do.”

She comes downstairs ten minutes later in a bright green coat. George is in his pram, two beady eyes swaddled in fluffy blankets. He gurgles and smiles when he sees Mary and she looks like she wants to turn around and run away. She isn't adapting to motherhood very well, but she still finds the time to tell Sybil all about her mother so Tom isn't too worried.

“I’ll take George.” Tom takes the pram. He's nervous; today has to go well or Mary, Anna and Lord Grantham will never forgive him. “Why don’t you take Sybil? Mary?” Tom stops in the hallway when he sees that she isn't following. “Are you coming?”

Its cold outside and Tom's glad he got everyone to wrap up warm. He carries Sybil after a little while, a crown of dark curls against his cheek. Mary pushes George; he's like Matthew, across the eyes. _This is the first walk since he died_. "We got some new cows the other day, if you'd like to see them? Maybe another time. We're getting pigs soon; the sheep are in that farm over there. Your father fought against diversity for so long and now he's its biggest fan, if you can believe that." Tom steals a glance at Mary, wonders if he should start reciting the poem he was reading into the night. Would she notice Tennyson in between cows and pigs?

It's full morning when they reach the ridge, the sun clear in the sky. "Looks like we might have a storm later, see those There’s a dark clouds over there?" Tom leans against a tree with the children while Mary stands and stares across the sky. “Its colder here than I expected. We shouldn’t stay here too long.”

Mary turns around and meets his gaze. “Please don’t ever bring me here again.”

###

Mary retires to bed early; she's got a slight limp and her eyes fall shut during dinner. "I think I wore her out," Tom tells Sybil that evening before bed. "But it was good for her, to get out. She taught me that life has to go on, even in death. I just hope I can do the same for her."

Tom's up early the next day, he has matter to attend to with one of the future pig farmers. Traipsing throughout the brambles, whistling a tune, he hears her.

“I hear that some changes have been made to the estates, since … well, recently.”

The farmer sounds terrified when he says, “Yes, m’lady.”

Tom doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but he can't help it. Hidden by the bushes, he can see her, listening with clear interest as the farmer explains his techniques for feeding and milking. In the early morning dusk she's like the women Tom heard stories about while growing up, wilful and strong.

_And beautiful._

Tom's stops the thought but not before it's out in the early morning: Mary Crawley is beautiful in the mornings. Especially this day, when her hair is far from perfect and her shoes are sinking into mud and manure and a cow is eating the fabric flower from her hair and she doesn't seem to mind. _Mary is beautiful_.

Thinking that a woman is beautiful isn't a crime; freedom of thought hasn't been abolished just yet. But she's Sybil's and Matthew's and he's Sybil's and Matthew's and he shouldn't think that Matthew's wife, his sister-in-law is beautiful in the early morning when she smiles.

"Tom!" Mary calls to him. “Are there any other changes you and my father have made to the running of this estate?”

Tom smiles because that's all he can do. “A great many, Lady Mary.”

“I look forward to hearing about them.”

###

Despite everything that's happened, Tom forgets, sometimes, that they are widows. He is Sybil's and Mary is Matthew's, and that's how it's always been: Mary was Matthew's long before they married and he has been Sybil's since he set foot in Downton. But things are not fixed. They don't stay the same, they move like fish in the river at the back of the house Tom grew up in.

"My father thinks I can’t help you, with the running of the estate." Mary says to Tom one morning. "He tells me that he's worried about my health but I'm not a simpleton, not have I lost the use of my body. If I weren't so pleased to have you here I'd be offended that he prefers to leave his legacy in the hands of his chauffeur rather than his daughter."

"I haven't been your father's chauffeur for a long time."

"I'm sure there are days when you wish you were." Mary bends to retrieve some wild flowers and offers one to Tom for his lapel.

"Never."

Mary smiles a rueful smile. "No, me either. It's strange how one person can come into your life and leave such a mark. A bit unfair, I suppose. What kind of a mark do you think we'll leave?"

She stumbles on the way back and Tom catches her before she falls. Her hand finds his for balance and his skin tingles into the evening. _Quite a mark indeed. I am Sybil's, but I am not Sybil's. Mary is Matthew's, but she is not Matthew's. I am just Tom and she is just Mary_.

Tom dresses for dinner and pushes the thought out of his mind.

###

The English upper classes never cease to amaze him. Mary's still in black and they come to call. When Mary was younger she was one of the most admired young women in the country; time and age, it would seem, have not dimmed her star.

Evelyn Napier comes to visit first, one of Mary's friends who survived the war. Sometimes he comes alone and Tom sits with him at dinner, he's about as interesting as the scones Ivy is learning to make: plain without texture. But he's nice enough and knows enough about Ireland to talk to Tom without awkward silences.

"Mary said that she never would have survived this past six months without you." Napier says in between talk of Russia and Irish politics. "I hear we owe Downton's success to you too."

"Careful, Evelyn." Mary smiles at Tom and rolls her eyes. "You sing Tom's praises too much and his head will never fit through the dining room doorway."

"I can't ever imagine the Lady Mary saying such a thing about me."

Napier smiles and his cheeks flush. "I admit that she did not say so precisely, but then, she didn't need to. Perhaps you'd care to take me on one of these walks one morning, since I hear they are where Downton's, England's, and the world's problems are laid to rest?"

Tony Gillingham shakes Tom's hand too hard and insists on sitting next to him at dinner. "Evelyn's told me all about what you and Mary have done with the grounds. I was hoping that you could direct me to some trails; I'd like to take Lady Mary out for a walk tomorrow morning."

Charles Blake speaks to him when winter is in the air and he has a pen in hand. "I'd like to see what you've done with the place. These old estates are so backwards, it's no wonder they aren't making any money. How's Downton staying ahead of the curve?"

Tom wonders if anyone would notice if he climbed out of the window until his eyes meet Mary's and she rolls her eyes just a little. "Downton's in very capable hands, Mr Blake."

###

"I half-expected to see one of your men with you one of these mornings." Tom says.

Mary shakes her head. "My parents want me to marry again."

"They want you happy."

"In their eyes, that is the same thing. You're spared that, I see."

"They love you." Tom tries to imagine one of Mary's men taking this walk with her and something cold squeezes his insides. “I hear Tony Gillingham proposed."

"It has been a year. It was bound to happen, I suppose. Although it has been longer for you and you have no proposals."

"I'll not get married again."

"Don't say that. And besides, I'm not getting married again so one of us has to." Mary stands and stares at her land. "One of us needs to be happy, Tom."

"You'll be happy one day, Mary."

###

It's Thomas who tells Tom about Mary and Charles Blake and when he hears, he knows he's got a serious problem because he wants to punch Blake right in the face.

"It was Ivy who found them, Mr Branson." Thomas stands by the table at breakfast and watches Tom spoon porridge into his mouth. "She said that they were both covered in mud, like they'd been rolling around in it."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, it is. Apparently the Lady Mary cooked breakfast for Mr Blake."

Tom squeezes his spoon so tight he's sure it's going to leave a mark. "That was thoughtful of her, to not wake up the servants." He doesn't turn around but he can feel Thomas's smile.

"And Mr Blake. It's probably the first time Lady Mary's made breakfast for anyone. Even Mr Crawley."

Tom puts down his spoon. He's not hungry anymore.

###

Tom's mother comes to visit; he meets her at the train station and tries not to snap when she insists upon staying in the inn in the village, even though Isobel has offered her guest room and Anna spent hours cleaning one of Downton’s nicer bedrooms.

"I don't want to impose." His mother grips her purse and stares out of the window. "And where's my granddaughter?"

They sit in the drawing room and eat sandwiches and drink hot, strong tea and his mother stares at Sybil like she's a gift from Heaven itself. "Lord, she's like Sybil, isn't she?"

The door opens and Mary walks in; even though Tom's facing away from the door he'd know that quick, sure footed stride anywhere.

"Mrs Branson!" Mary approaches with her hand out, shrugging out of her coat. "Tom told me that you were coming to visit, I'm sorry to have missed you when you first arrived."

"Mamma, May I introduce Lady Mary Crawley, Sybil's eldest sister."

Tom watches his mother watch Mary and see the elegant dress and perfect hair, the cheeks flushed from the cold. _What would you do, if I told you that she was the first woman since Sybil that I thought was beautiful? What would Mary do?_ He decides that introductions are probably safer. "Mary, this is my mother, Mrs Bridget Branson."

"Lady Mary." Bridget takes Mary's hand and shakes once, stares at Sybil's eldest sister like she's a mirage come from nowhere.

The other Crawleys appear then, Edith and Cora are warm and obliging, Lord Grantham and his mother cordial and well-meaning. Soon Isobel arrives and receives Mrs Branson like she's an orphan or veteran or young mother, or any one of her endless list of good causes. Accommodation at the village pub is cancelled and before anyone can say anything Isobel has called her house and told them to make sure that the guest room is warm and fresh.

"Mrs Branson, you're family." She says. "Staying in the village, after everything Tom has done for this family is out of the question!"

###

"How are my family?" Tom and his mother steal a moment alone to walk Downton's grounds; it's cold outside and the sun is setting earlier with each passing day.

"They miss you. They want to know when you're coming home. They want to know your daughter. They ask when you're getting married again." Bridget turns around to stare at Downton, so imposing in the pink-purple light. "Are you happy here, Tom? You were so angry when you got here. Do your books gather dust as you keep the upper classes living in the past?"

"That isn't fair." Tom shakes his head. "You don't know these people. Sybil wasn't like that, was she?"

His mother sniffs. "Do not forget your roots. You are not from these people. When are you coming home?"

"You know I can't do that."

"What about Liverpool? You said you were going to come and visit, you and Sybil could come back with me when I leave." Bridget pushes her son's hair out of his face and Tom feels like a little boy again. "My beautiful boy. My first son. I miss you so much."

"I miss you too, Mamma."

Tom watches his mother go with mixed feelings. He feels free and heavy all at the same time. He doesn't belong with her, but does he belong in Downton?

"Maybe you should visit your family in Liverpool." Mary says as they drive back from the station together. "If I can manage the train to Rippon I'm sure you can manage Liverpool. Maybe a foot in both worlds would suit you."

"I have stayed with your family too long. Maybe I should find somewhere in the village. Maybe I should go to Liverpool, or America." Tom stares at Downton and wonders what on earth he’s doing here. "Maybe I should just join the circus."

"And what would you do, in the circus?"

Tom smiles. "I always wanted to be a juggler."

"We're well suited, then: when I was growing up my sisters and I would pretend to be in the circus. I was the elephant tamer. Edith was the elephant, of course. Sybil made sure our parents didn't get pelted with peanuts."

Tom laughs. "The circus it is, then. Of course, I wanted to be a pirate, too."

"I can't help you there. Crawleys don't do well on boats. But a juggling pirate would be a rare sight indeed."

Tom goes to bed that night and dreams about Mary. He wakes up in a cold sweat and forces himself to think about something else.

###

"Lady Mary and Mr Branson seem to be spending a lot of time together." Bates murmurs to Anna as she lays out Mary's coat for her afternoon walk with Tom. “They’re walking three times a day now, aren’t they?”

“Yesterday they were out before dawn and didn’t get back until after dusk.”

Bates catches his wife's eye and sees the gleam there. "Anna, you don't think-"

"All I know is that Lady Mary went away for a long time after Matthew died. And now she smiles and laughs and I know that the only thing that has changed is the time she spends with Mr Branson."

"What about her suitors?"

Anna smiles, shakes her head. "Can you see any of them making Mary happy?" She stares out of the window where Tom is mock sword fencing with Sybil while Mary looks on, a smile on her face. "No, Mr Bates, I do not think so."

###

There’s an early autumn frost on the ground when Tom visits Sybil. He visits less than he feels like she should but more than he really wants to; Sybil doesn’t belong in the family plot, she belongs with him.

“Good morning, Sybil.” Tom takes a seat on the bench opposite her small, dainty headstone. “I haven’t visited as much as I should, I know. But its hard, being here, when your picture’s there on the nightstand. And Sybil’s been learning all about the Knights of the Round Table … I hope you can forgive me. Anyway … Sybil, I came here today because I want to talk to you.” He reaches into his jacket, takes out the picture from his nightstand. “Its easier, to talk to you like this. I love you, Sybil. I do. I love you. I’ll always love you. But I can’t grieve for you anymore. It isn’t fair on me or Sybil, and it isn’t what you would want. So I’m going to remember you, by living.”

Isobel Crawley is walking to Downton and they take the last mile together. “And how are you, Tom?”

“Well, thank you.”

“I saw you in the cemetery; were you visiting Sybil?”

“Yes.” Tom looks at his shoes; inside his jacket Sybil’s picture is burning a hole in the fabric. “I don’t visit as often as I should.”

“Mary does not visit Matthew at all.” Grief makes Isobel another person for a moment. “She talks to a picture, by their bed. Her bed, I should say. You heard that Charles Blake wants to marry her?”

Something cold takes Tom’s insides and squeezes until its all he can do to breathe. “No, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Me either. He wants to see her, when you are all in London.”

“I’m not going to Rose’s coming-out.”

“You aren’t?”

Tom snorts. “Can you really see me at something like that?”

“No, but maybe that is what they need.” Isobel smiles. “I’m glad you didn’t move away, Tom. Downton needs you. Mary needed you.”

“I didn’t do anything that she wouldn’t have done on her own, in time.”

“Perhaps. Mary loved my son very much. Now, I think, she is realising that she might love again. Will it be you, Tom, or will it be the nice but dull Charles Blake?”

Tom’s stomach falls through a hole. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you not?” Isobel gives him a kind, indulgent smile. “You’re less obvious now than you were a few years ago, I’ll grant you, but Mary isn’t Sybil and she wouldn’t thank you for the way you wooed her sister.”

“I can’t marry my wife’s sister.”

“It isn’t illegal, Tom. And you already proved that you don’t care about what people think when you pursued Sybil.”

Tom can’t believe he’s talking to Isobel about this. Its like she’s taking all his deepest, most hidden thoughts and speaking them into the air and making them real. “Mary can’t marry me.”

“Can’t or won’t? Have you asked her?”

Rarely has Tom felt more speechless. “Mary needs to marry well. She needs to marry Charles Blake, or Evelyn Napier, or whoever.”

“Mary needs to marry someone who will love her. She needs to marry someone who loved Matthew.”

Eventually its all Tom can do but stare at Isobel and say, “I don’t love Mary.”

“Don’t, or can’t? I’ve never known you be afraid of love before, Tom.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Mary appears, a wintry vision in white and cream, dark eyes and hair and ruby red lips and its all Tom can do but stare at her because he realises in that moment that he’s in love with his dead wife’s sister and her mother-in-law knows it.

“Lady Mary.” He manages. “We were just walking back from the village.” Tom can feel Isobel’s eyes on them both; he wants her to walk into Downton and take all her talk with her so he can go back to living in blissful denial.

“I hope she hasn’t tired you out; I was looking forward to taking a stroll before we all go to London.”

“I’m not going to London.” Tom blurts out. “And if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to the house.”

 _I will conqueror this_ , he thinks as he walks up the stairs and into the nursery. _I will_.

###

Sarah is nice; they take dinner together and she wants to see the house. She warm and light and laughs a lot and reminds Tom of how he used to be when he first came to Downton, fierce convictions and decided opinions, a world of black and whites. He’s ashamed to admit it, but his mother is right. He can’t remember the last time he cracked a book, so once Sarah is gone he reads and reads until he’s started all of the books on his shelf and they lie, strewn about his bedroom. Dawn is breaking when he takes a seat at his table, Sybil’s picture next to his hand. He picks up a pen and writes.

 _My name is Tom Branson. I am an Irishman and a Catholic. I am Sybil’s husband and Sybil’s father. I believe in democracy and freedom. I fight for what I want. I helped Matthew and Mary save Downton from destruction. I am proud of this. I am a widower. I am twenty four years old. I want to get married again. I want to marry Lady Mary_. He pauses, scratches out Lady.

 _Mary. I love Mary. I love my wife’s sister. I love my friend’s wife. I love Mary_.

Tom leans back in his chair, stares at the paper. _This is who I am. Not books or reading, firebrand debate. This is who I am: a man who loved, and wants to love again_.

He puts his books back on his shelf, arranged alphabetically buy author. Then he folds up the paper and tucks it into his jacket, goes to see his daughter and falls asleep on the floor of her nursery. When he wakes up he has just enough time to catch the last train to London.

###

The train is late and Tom grabs the last carriage from the station, arrives at Sybil’s aunt’s house with enough time to change for dinner. His tie isn’t fastened properly and the shirt collar itches and he’s sure that he must look like a buffoon. Or a juggling pirate.

He scans the crowd for Mary, anxiety clenching his gut to nothing. He finds her sandwiched between Charles Blake and Tony Gillingham, who give him frosty smiles when he comes closer.

“Tom, I didn’t know you were coming.”

"It was a last-minute decision.” Tom takes Mary’s hand without waiting for an invitation, begins to waltz them around, not caring that they’re going the wrong way to everyone else.

“Well, improvisation is a necessary skill for a juggler. And a pirate, I imagine. I’m glad you’ve come; London is so loud and obnoxious, although if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you’ve been avoiding me.”

Tom spies Gillingham and Blake stalking them from each side of the room. _Is he really so obvious?_ He feels like a man possessed. His grip on Mary’s waist is heavier than it should be, and he can feel her heart beat, the heat from her body. _This is becoming a disaster_. He thinks about Sybil: _don’t laugh at me. Its cost me all I’ve got to say these things. Where is that young man’s courage now?_

He clears his throat, gives Mary a smile and meets her eyes. “I haven’t, I assure you.”

“You’re a poor liar, Tom. You’ve been on edge since you got here. Has something happened? Is Sybil alright-“

“Sybil is fine.” Tom gives her a smile, twirls her even if everyone else is waltzing. “Let’s take a stroll tomorrow. I miss the fresh air.”

He’s waiting in the hallway for her, hat in his hands, almost pacing the length of the hallway. _What are you doing? What are you going to say to her?_

They take a carriage to Hyde Park and walk in artificial calmness. Other couples surround them; smiling women with their arms looped through their partners’. Times are changing, but not enough for Mary to take Tom’s arm unless they were engaged.

“Are you going to tell me what’s troubling you, Tom?”

Tom thinks about the note in his pocket, Thomas’ smirk when he spied Sarah. The urge to unburden himself is almost unbearable. “I think that you would be ashamed of me if I did.”

Mary smiles and shakes her head. “I doubt that. You are not happy and you must talk to someone. If not me, then someone else.”

They sit down on a bench, opposite a fountain. Tom’s words are halting and his cheeks crimson, but he tells her about Sarah and the Downton tour. “She only wanted to see the upstairs. She’s never seen the house before, and just wanted to look down on the balcony. I’m sorry if you think I betrayed your trust or took advantage of your family’s absence, but there’s nothing but innocence to it.”

Mary nods, the image of serenity. “I believe you.”

They don’t talk again until they are at the front door. “Do you love her, this Sarah?” Mary’s standing on the step above him, looking down with those dark eyes and Tom wonders what she would do if he grabbed her and kissed her.

“No.” He says. “No, I don’t.”

###

Tom shares the train ride home with Lord and Lady Grantham. “How did you find London, Tom?” Cora stares at him with wide eyes, her accent a soft breeze on the chilly morning.

“Loud. Obnoxious.” Tom feels embarrassed but he can’t help but say, “I miss Downton.”

Lord Grantham smiles what seems to be a genuine smile. “I am delighted to hear it, my boy.”

“Does this mean that you’ll be staying with us a little while longer?” Cora says.

Tom smiles, pats his jacket absently. “I hope so.”

Their new chauffeur is late and Lord Grantham ventures into the station house to find out where their cars are; Cora pats Tom’s arm and gives him a wide smile. “This fell out of your jacket as we were packing.” She’s got his note in her hand and Tom’s insides pool into his shoes. “Quite a nice hand you have, there.”

Tom stares at the note and is sure that there’s no blood left in his head. “Lady Mary said that all the men she knew had nicer penmanship than she does.”

“I don’t know about that.” Cora presses his note into his hand. “You might want to put this someplace safe, for the time being.”

“You read it?”

“I read it. It was open when it fell. My daughter laughs again, Tom, and with one daughter dead and another in Europe, I think that’s all I can ask for, don’t you?”

Relief tastes like honey in Tom’s mouth. “So you approve?”

“I think that you should talk to Mary. We’ll take this car with the other chauffeur; Mary’s on the next train. I’ll talk to Robert, he won’t suspect a thing.”

Tom waits on the platform like a man possessed, pacing and thinking until the train comes into view and then he has no idea what he’s going to say to her. The paper burns a hole in his pocket. _This is who I am_.

Mary’s in First, of course, and surprise is evident on her face when she sees him on the platform. “What are you doing here?”

“I stayed behind while the others went ahead.” Tom can’t believe he sounds so calm but offers his hand to help her out of the carriage. “I haven’t driven for a while, thought we could drive back together, see the grounds from other angle. And Mrs Crawley.” He says when Isobel follows Mary. “I didn’t realise you and Lady Mary had come together.”

“We had quite the journey, didn’t we, Mary?”

Mary’s quiet on the way home but Isobel fills the silence with questions that Tom is only too happy to answer.

“One of the farmers has adopted a baby and Edith’s taken quite a shine to her; she’s been spending every day at their house.”

“Let’s hope the farmer’s wife doesn’t mind too much.” Mary says.

“I think its marvellous.” Isobel says from the back seat. “Edith needs some love in her life, after her luck. We all need a second chance at love.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Mrs Crawley.” Tom smiles.

Mary stares out of the window and hurries upstairs as soon as they’re back at Downton, and Tom stands in the hallway and watches her go. _What am I going to say to her?_

###

Dinner is a sedate affair; everyone’s tired from the journey and no-one is in the mood to talk except, it would seem, for Rose, who wants to talk about her coming-out in such detail that Tom wonders if she has forgotten that everyone was there. Mary sits at his side at dinner in a blue dress that he hasn’t seen for a long time and has his eyes stray to the table where her hands rest, he notices that for the first time, her ring finger is bare. He grips his spoon, tries to think about something other than the way Mary has been looking at him all night. Eventually, all he can say is, “Mrs Patmore’s outdone herself this time, don’t you think, Mary?”

“Oh …yes, very good.” Mary’s eyes meet Tom’s and in that moment the world falls away and they are the only two people in the room, on earth, because she is looking at him like he is Tom and not Sybil’s Tom and she is just Mary and not Matthew’s Mary and Tom dares to hope if, in that moment, if he was to lean forwards just slightly and press his lips to hers, if she might just kiss him back.

###

Tom retires to bed but does not sleep, stays up writing. At first his thoughts and feelings, how he’s felt these past few years but has been afraid to put pen to paper. But then one page becomes five and then ten and the words come out of him like water from a dam, crashing and coursing and when he looks up the dawn is on its way and he has pages and pages of notes and thoughts, snatches of conversations that have somehow turned into scenes and chapters and has he just started writing a book?

He stares down at the last thing he’s written: _he is a brave man, and he loves a woman and he wants to tell her, because she deserves to know_. He stands up, knocks over his table, taking everything with it. He scrabbles on the floor for pages and pages of his untidy scrawl, finding Sybil’s picture nestled beneath them. As always, her beauty, eternally captured on print, takes his breath away.

“You would never forgive me if I didn’t try to be as happy as I could.” He rights the table, places the picture on the table before deciding no, that isn’t right. He tries the drawers on the other side of the room, but that doesn’t feel right either. He sits on the bed, touches the frame to his lips. Then he walks back to the drawers and tucks her away in the top drawer, next to Sybil’s christening gown. _I will see you again, Sybil. And you won’t be forgotten. But I don’t need your picture in my room to know that you’re watching over me_.

###

Mary isn’t at Downton.

“She left early this morning, Mr Branson.” Carson stares at him with knowing eyes almost hidden by those enormous eyebrows. “She said that she had some letters to post.”

“Letters? To who?”

Carson looks indignant. “That is not a question I would be asking. A lady’s letters are her own business. But she took one of the cars, in case you were wondering.”

“A car?” Tom hasn’t seen Lady Mary drive since that terrible day, after the accident.

“She said that it was a nice day, and so why not?”

Tom smiles, a wide smile that reaches both ears. “Why not, indeed.”

Isobel finds him as he leaves Downton; the sun is coming up and he wants, needs to walk.

“I’d be glad to walk with you.” She says, and takes his arm when he offers.

They walk and walk, saying little until they crest the road and spy a familiar car, parked rather haphazardly. There are dainty footsteps in the frost, heading towards the ridge. Please don’t bring me here again.

“Isobel, I have to go.”

Isobel smiles. “I’m glad.”

“You were right.”

Tom follows the footsteps. He finds her on the ridge she said she would never want to see again, tears on her cheeks. He’s afraid to say anything, to move or speak, but as the sun sets, she turns around and sees him and its like she’s looking at him with new eyes.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.” His voice is quiet and husky. “Isobel asked me if I wanted to walk with her. We saw your car on our way back, but she told me to go and find you. I just didn’t think I’d find you here.”

“You walked with Isobel?”

Tom nods. “She said you’d gone to the village.”

“I was posting some letters. To Charles Blake, and Tony Gillingham, actually.” Mary smiles, looks at the ground. “Do you remember when I said that I didn’t want to get married again?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I changed my mind. You see, I would like to get married again, but just not to them.”

“I see.” Tom’s mouth breaks into a smile and hope blooms in his chest like a rare flower. “Did you have anyone else in mind?”

Mary’s smile grows some more, her eyes soft and warm. “I believe so.”

Tom nods, and offers Mary his arm. “Shall we take a walk, while you tell me all about it?”

Mary takes Tom’s arm. “I’d like that.”

###

They walk down the ridge, staring at the brambles that have grown, the cows that are grazing in the fields. Mary’s grip is tight on Tom’s arm and they take a rest at a fence and watch the land that they have helped to nurture.

“I went to see Matthew today. And Sybil.” Mary steals a rose from a nearby bush, presses it to her nose. “You see, the thing is, Tom, is that I love you. I thought I did for a while, but then I thought about what you said and I realised that I didn’t think that I loved you, I knew I did.”

Relief is sweet in Tom’s veins. “You love me?”

“Yes.” Mary meets his eyes and she smiles. “I understand, if you don’t love me. I am Sybil’s sister and I can be cold and hard and I’m sure my parents and Edith and the rest of my family, and most of the servants and the village will have something to say about it, but Matthew showed me that I can be warm, and you showed me that I can be strong. And those aren’t things that I want to lose.”

Tom takes the rose from Mary’s hands, and tucks it into her hat. “You can be both of those things without me.”

Mary’s eyes flicker to his mouth and something twitches in Tom’s stomach. “No, but I would like you there all the same.”

Tom closes the gap between them and kisses her. Her lips are warm and soft and she tastes like the mints they sell in the village. Her gloved fingers come up to touch his face and then her back’s against the fence and he’s breathing her in like she’s the sweetest air.

“Marry me.” He whispers against her mouth when they break apart. “Marry me, Mary. I love you. I’ve loved you … for weeks, months. I’ll never have money like Blake or Gillingham or Napier, but I love you.”

“Oh, Tom.” Mary touches his face, gently kisses him again. “We don’t need money. We’re going to be pirates, remember?”

They begin to walk again, pausing to eat the blackberries that grow within striking distance of Downton. “Tom, before we go any further, I must tell you something.”

Tom stares at Mary’s face, the stricken look there. “What is it?”

She tells him about a gentleman called Pamook and a young girl’s foolish choice, a moment of indiscretion that haunted her for years. In a few years, society won’t care but now, standing in Downton’s grounds, Mary cares.

Tom takes her hand. “Do you really think I care about things like that?”

“You deserve to know.”

“Well, since we’re on that subject.” He tells her about Edna, a foolish choice with a selfish girl. When he’s done Mary squeezes his hand.

“We really are pirates, aren’t we?”

“So, now we know each other’s guilty little secrets, do you still love me?”

Mary laughs. You know, you’ll have to ask my father for permission. Times haven’t changed that much, you know.”

Tom can’t help but laugh along with her. Mary’s laugh is so rare its impossible not to join in. “Hopefully your mother will have buttered him up a little bit.”

Mary pauses mid-chew. “My mother knew?”

“She might have … inferred something, from the time we spent together. As did Isobel.”

Mary rolls her eyes. “Isobel cornered me on the train back from London. She told me that even if I loved someone other than Matthew, she would still love me. And it didn’t mean that I loved Matthew any less.” She casts her gaze towards the sky. “Do you think they would approve.”

Tom takes her hand. “They would approve of us being happy.” He stares at Downton, his home. _This is who I am_. “Shall we?”


End file.
